


That Which They Defend

by yet_intrepid



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Denethor's A+ Parenting, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic, Libraries, Twelve Days of Fic-mas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:16:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8844697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: "He is not supposed to be out. Even the season’s early dusk is barely falling, but he quarreled with his father yesterday, and Denethor commanded him to keep to his quarters. And at most times Faramir would not dare such a disobedience, but the issue that led to their quarrel is unresolved."
(ft. a Sad but Nice Librarian)





	

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt from fleurdefeu on tumblr: "young Faramir taking it upon himself to organize the archives (which are a disaster because Denethor fired everyone and shoved everything in some basement)."
> 
> Faramir is like... fourteen-ish in this. And man, I fuckin' hate Denethor.

Faramir wraps his cloak tighter around himself as he slips down to the fifth level, his breath billowing out in icy clouds. He pulls his hood forward too, and not only for shelter from the winter wind.

He is not supposed to be out. Even the season’s early dusk is barely falling, but he quarreled with his father yesterday, and Denethor commanded him to keep to his quarters. And at most times Faramir would not dare such a disobedience, but the issue that led to their quarrel is unresolved.

On the fifth level, he turns down the silversmiths’ street, a wide thoroughfare that is nevertheless mostly deserted. Two turns later, he finds what he seeks—a simple building with a printer’s sign over the door.

The windows are dark, but Faramir knows where he’s going, and he slips into the alley to rap on a small side door. Then he waits, hands gripping his cloak shut from the inside.

Then the door swings open. A thin, gray-haired woman, her hand on the knob, ushers him past. “Oh my,” she says. “Oh my, I wasn’t expecting you, please come in!”

Faramir smiles and enters, ducking his head. “I’m sorry if I’ve caught you unawares, Madam Elunis,” he says. “You said I could come back and help.”

“Oh my,” she says again. “My lord, there was no need—you’re very kind to come but your father, the lord steward—”

“I can handle my father,” Faramir lies gently as he follows Elunis down a set of torchlit stairs. It is not her worry, and besides, soon Boromir will be home for Yule. Denethor will be easier to please then, if only a little. “Besides, he should not have defunded the archives. If we let the history of Gondor die, if we kill the music and the poetry and leave all the wisdom and joy of our heritage to the dust, we are fighting Sauron’s war for him.”

Elunis clicks her tongue. “Young man, ‘tis a pity you’re bound for the army. You’d make a fine archivist yourself, you know.”

Faramir lets the comment pass. It’s too painful an idea to respond to politely, and besides, they’ve reached the end of the stairs, landing in the cellar where Gondor’s archives have been rehomed. It’s filled with crates and satchels, many of them leaking loose paper. Elunis grimaces at it, and Faramir sighs in response. Everything was packed in much haste last week, when Denethor gave the announcement that the archives’ storage space would be rented instead to a merchant who would pay the city a fine price. And no, the decree had clarified, the city was not responsible for finding a new location in time on the reduced budget allotted for this year.

“A pity,” Elunis repeats again, softly. “But we’ll make do, after all. Make the best of it. And besides, we’re closer to the schools here. Maybe we’ll get more visitors of your sort, rather than just the old lore-masters.” She nudges Faramir’s shoulder. “Always a pleasure to see a young face.”

“It’s a pleasure to come,” Faramir tells her, and this time it is not a lie. “And a pleasure to help, as well, if you will direct me as to what to do.”

She beams at him and starts talking through the first steps. They fall into a rhythm of work together, carrying crates, sorting scrolls. And Faramir keeps mind of the time, for it will not do to be caught out by the night watch, but it would not do, either, to leave this—this injustice, this disregard for what is good in Middle-Earth. And he must be a soldier one day, but for now, he will make sure there remains something to fight for.


End file.
